


Like A Candle In The Wind

by ArmedAndDangerous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Canon-AU, Castiel learns about being human, Daddy Issues, Destiel - Freeform, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Lots and lots of pain, M/M, My First Fanfic, Night Terrors, Post-Season3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Slow Burn, psychological pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmedAndDangerous/pseuds/ArmedAndDangerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has been stuck in Hell, literally. With Alistair torturing him ceaselessly, Dean has difficulty keeping track of time, not to mention his sanity. So when a man appears, claiming to be an Angel of the Lord, is he hallucinating? Or have his half-assed prayers finally been answered? Then there is the question as to why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drag Me From Hell

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are mine, some events will go along with the original story line, but if things happen that you don't recognize, thats all me. This story is canon up to the end of season 3 of Supernatural, and becomes AU with some things following the original storyline, some things embellished, and a lot of things added and changed to suit my story.

This is my first Fanfic, so be kind :)

***

Hell.

It burned. Not like fire burns, but the slow creep of frostbite you only notice when it's already searing. The kind that's just below your skin and nothing can relieve the pain.

Sometimes it waned, kindling false hope that it's over, before returning sevenfold. He learned quickly not to trust the false relief.

But nothing compared to Alistair.

He made every new cut feel like a million hot needles, each broken bone a volcano. And when it seemed like Dean's soul was finally torn beyond recognition, he would leave him to heal. And then he would start all over again.

Dean's sense of time became unreliable. A second became a year became a decade. The only anchor to whatever sanity he had left was Sammy.

Hopefully Lilith messed up. Hopefully the hellhounds left everyone else alone. If anyone deserved to get out of there alive it was Sam. Part of him wondered if Ruby made it out okay, but he wont shed any tears if she got ganked by Lilith.

Dean had to figure out a way to keep the demons off Sammy's back, even if it's from this side of Hell's Gate. As long as Alistair kept on coming back, he hadn't broken him yet. At least this was better than becoming yet another wretched soul or, worse yet, a soul-less demon. Dean would take eternity of torture over becoming the monster he has hunted for so long any time.

His surroundings were dark, with just enough of an eerie glow to illuminate the blood-stained leather straps binding Dean to the dentist-like chair, and the arsenal of torture instruments he could just make out if he had the strength to turn his head an inch to the right. Alistair never bothered to clean the blood from his "artist's tools," as he liked to call them.

He was almost healed up again. Not much longer until Alistair would return with a new, genius way to make me scream until my vocal chords bleed. He wouldn't stop until he agreed to become his apprentice. To do his twisted work for him. And now Dean was running out of creative denials.

"Hello, Dean."

Oh, how he hated that voice. A sound like a too tightly wound violin mixed in with sandpaper on tree bark.

"I'm afraid I'm not ready for our playdate yet, Al, still gotta get all prettied up." Not his best remark, but he was early. Normally he would wait until Dean was back to 100%. Something was up.

Alistair looked at Dean for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell him why he was early. His lips twisted into a malicious grin.

"I believe I went a bit overboard with your father. He's just so good at wearing down my patience. Must be a Winchester thing." He hovered his hand over his instruments, pausing over a rather primitive flaying knife. He picks it up and examines it in the dim lighting, nodding absently.

"Must be my lucky day," Dean gritted out between his teeth. The wounds from last time were still painfully present. "So why don't you stop playing coy and get to the good stuff?"

"Patience is a virtue, you know. Not that it matters down here." The demon stepped up to him and adjusted the contraption he was strapped to. Satisfied, he shot Dean a sickening grin the Hunter was already too familiar with.

He didn't even have time to prepare, the thin knife was already slicing into his bare ribs.

Dean clenched teeth were holding back my scream, but he knew it was useless to even try to stay silent. Each twitch of Alistair's hand on the knife triggered another strangled cry of pain.

Then, there was blinding light. He didn't understand. Did Alistair figure out a new torture? It's been ages since he brought anything new to the job.

There was a ringing in his ears so profound, any control Dean had on his screams vanished. But his screams were joined by unfamiliar ones.

The light receded, but was still so potent against the shadows of the room. And he saw him. He was beautiful. Majestic. Hell, Dean didn't even have a coherent thought to describe him. He was also a bit preoccupied with the fact that the newcomer was wearing a trench coat and holding Alistair by the throat.

Was Dean hallucinating? Did he finally break? His ragged breath whistled through his teeth as he watched his captor be flung to the corner. Dean didn't get it. He was officially mental.

The stranger turned to face him slowly, as if reluctant to see what he had stumbled upon. Dean's eyes widened as he was met with the full effect of those eyes. The bluest blue, the colour of the hot summer sky, and the first real colour he had seen since arriving in Hell.

"Dean Winchester."

It wasn't a question. The words reverberated through his core, and he felt panic. He needed to answer. If he didn't, the beautiful stranger would leave and Dean would still be stuck here. No.

"Y-yes." Dean's voice shook, and his eyes were wide. "Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the man hurried up to Dean, pulling a blade from the inside of his coat. He didn't want to, but Dean flinched automatically. Hell will do that to a person. But Dean knew he was safe with him. Everything was going to be alright.

With deft cuts, the stranger sliced through the thick leather. Without their support, Dean slid down, caught by his liberator just before his knees hit the ground. He hated his weakness, but knew nothing could be done about it.

The strange man helped Dean to stand up, and methodically removed the knife from his ribs. He wavered, but remained upright. A small victory, but a triumph none the less.

"My name is Castiel, and I am an Angel of the Lord." He handed Dean the knife, as a peace offering or as a weapon to defend himself with, should he need to. Damn, did it feel good to hold a knife again. To have power.

As Dean was revelling in this new development, movement caught his eye. Eternity down here didn't diminish his Hunter instincts; if anything, they were on high-alert. Good thing, too, because it turned out to be Alistair moving to attack Castiel.

He didn't think. He shoved the Angel aside - if he really was an Angel - and propelled Alistair onto the torture chair with strength he later chalked up to vengeance, rage, and adrenaline. In the same motion he sunk the knife into Alistair's stomach. Dean was blind with rage.

There was nothing but stab. Slice. Cut. Stab. Over and over and over until a voice cut through the fog and screaming and Dean felt strong hands on his shoulders pulling him back.

"Dean. DEAN! You must stop."

But it was already too late. His hands were stained red, a perverse mimicry of Alistair's hands after too many days of torturing Dean. Castiel gazed at him with something that may have passed for pity, were the Angel not so far removed from any emotional understanding.

"We must hurry." With that, Castiel pulled Dean behind him into a deserted corridor. Nobody was alerted by Alistair's cries because they simply joined the cacophony of tortured screams echoing around them.

"We're just gonna leave that son of a bitch alive in there? And by the way, I ain't prancing around Hell wearing nothing but blood-" Dean was cut off by a tan trench coat being shoved in his face. Taking it, he noted that Castiel was wearing a suit. A bit fancy for Hell, but what did he know.

Putting the Angel's coat on, Dean took in his surroundings with a trained eye, clutching the knife in his right hand. The Angel seemed to be adamant about leaving the demon in pieces yet breathing, and Dean begrudgingly followed his companion along the corridor.

Looking behind then in front of them, Dean realized that the immediate area surrounding them was better lit than anywhere else. But the light moved with them as they walked, so he could only come to the conclusion that Castiel was the source of that light.

They hurried along the hall, the sound of Dean's bare feet lightly padding along joining the intermittent screams. As they rounded a corner, a single demon nearly collided with them.

Before he knew it, Castiel had already stabbed it with his blade.

Dean was impressed by those reflexes, but make sure to keep his face a mask of badass. Job well done, moving on.

After a while, Dean was able to make out a sound that didn't seem to fit with his surroundings: something akin to whistling wind and the sound of tearing fabric.

Suddenly a hand caused him to stop, and he looked at the Angel expectantly.

"When I say 'Run,' you hold onto me and do not let go. Do you understand?" Castiel's eyes glowed in the dark. Dean merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Ready or not, Castiel took Dean's hand in his, glanced around the corner, and called "Run!" before doing just that, pulling the Hunter along behind him.


	2. Out of the Frying Pan

"When I say 'Run,' you hold onto me and do not let go. Do you understand?" Castiel's eyes glowed in the dark. Dean merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Ready or not, Castiel took Dean's hand in his, glanced around the corner, and called "Run!" before doing just that, pulling the Hunter along behind him.

They rounded the corner, and Dean saw the origin of the strange sounds. Having been in the dark recesses of Hell for so long, he was practically blinded by the light and had to rely on Castiel to pull him in the right direction.

What he could make out were a few shadows pass between them and the light, and guessed that they were demons trying to stop them. Whatever it was they were doing. Escaping Hell? Hopefully.

The closer they got to what appeared to be a fissure in mid-air, the brighter Castiel glowed. Dean expected them to have a battle on hand, but Castiel showed no sign of slowing down. He merely called out to Dean to shield his eyes, which he did. Even doing that, Dean could see the world turn a searing white-hot. Through the stench of sulphur, he could smell charred flesh and that was enough. He didn't need to see.

Dean didn't know how far they had to fun to reach the fissure, but he could pin-point the exact moment they passed through it. Castiel spun him around and pushed him through by his shoulders, as if to make certain he would get through in one piece. The agonizing burn of Hell was replaced by a warm, gentle breeze, and the putrid smell of burned demon gave way to sweetgrass and good old oak.

Through it all, Castiel's grip never faltered. The brightness still hurt Dean's eyes, so he kept them shut as he dropped to his knees and out of Castiel's grasp. He could feel the dry grass under his hands and legs, and he nearly wept for joy. Exhaustion was very real, as was the sweet air in his lungs and the warmth of the sun on his face.

Behind him, he could hear Castiel chant in a language with a similar cadence as Latin, but older than anything that Dean had heard spoken by Bobby or anybody else he knew. As the Angel continued his incantation with increasing volume, the light flared up one last time and then faded.

Dean's shoulders ached, his rib burned where Alistair stabbed him, and he was weary to the point of passing out. The only reason he was still semi-conscious was the fact that he was next to an unknown powerful being that had just snatched him out of Hell, he had no idea where he was, and he was clad in only a singed trench coat.

With the light subsiding and becoming more normal daylight, Dean could finally squint open his eyes to take in his surroundings. Dry grass. Field. Oak trees nearby. A dusty road to the far left. Pretty ordinary. Slowly, Dean clambered to his feet and turned to face his saviour.

Castiel was uttering the last syllables of whatever spell he was casting, and lowering his hands with the slightest air of exhaustion.

Any traces of the rift were now gone. The smell of sulfur was still lingering, but the light breeze helped dissipate it. Dean made sure the coat was still securely tied around his waist. What he wouldn't give for a nice motel room with a working shower.

"We cannot stay here. They will come for us." Castiel quickly surveyed their surroundings, before turning back to Dean. Without so much as a by-your-leave, Castiel clasped his shoulder and between one blink and the next they were in a hotel room. Generic, but way nicer than what he had been envisioning earlier.

"I presume there is a protocol for cleanliness amongst humans." All Dean could do was grunt in response and stumble towards the bathroom. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw apprehension and worry in his rescuer's face.

Besides the accumulated Hell gunk on his face, Dean was quite the sight. Haggard, covered in stubble and dirt and sweat and blood. Time to get cleaned up.

This was far from over. But first he had to see if this Castiel could magic up some pie. It's been too long since he tasted pie, and nothing would keep Dean Winchester from the world's best dessert.

But first, a shower.

***

The spray of the water was the most comforting and human thing he has felt in a long time. Dean stood under the shower head, allowing the water to wash away all traces of the nightmare. Well, almost. He still had the stab wound in his ribs reminding him with each pulse of pain.

He was trying and failing to ignore the throbbing. His pain tolerance was shot from his stay underground. Alistair had made sure of that.

Dean was a mere shadow of the person he was before... Before those Hellhounds ripped him to shreds. Before that son of a bitch Alistair got hold of him for who knows how long.

But he wasn't there anymore. Castiel got him out. Whoever Castiel was. Unless this was another trick.

That thought stopped Dean up short. Tricksters could make things like this happen. Who's to say Demons hadn't found a way to do the same?

Suddenly, Dean was having problems breathing. Or rather, he was having trouble keeping his breathing slow and steady and was heading towards hyperventilation. What if this was all fake and he was still in Hell and Alistair was cackling into his ugly fist because he thought he was finally free of the torture?

Darkness was hazing along the edge of his vision, so instead of falling over, Dean chose to sit unceremoniously on the floor of the shower, still in the path of the water. It was helping keep him focused, if not perfectly aware. He put his head between his knees and worked on his breathing.

It had been so long since he had a panic attack, he almost forgot what it felt like. The tingling needles in his limbs, the numbness that followed. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to calm down. Once his breathing was steady, Dean brought himself up to a stand, and finished cleaning himself methodically, taking extra care with the open wound at his side.

Stepping out onto the tiled floor, he gingerly dried himself with a hotel towel and wrapped it around his waist. He had avoided the mirror when he first stepped into the bathroom, but now he forced himself to look. The sight in the steamed glass made him flinch.

There was no trace of the confidence and strength he was used to seeing, but that wasn't a surprise. Hell had done a magnificent job stripping him of that. No, the surprise was from the look on his face.

He looked older. Not physically older, but his eyes held a weariness he had seen in his father's eyes. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp and prominent. The usual light green of his eyes was shadowed. This wasn't the Dean he knew.

Then again, Dean wasn't the same person anymore. He felt it deep in his bones. Too much had happened for him to be the same.

Running a shaking hand across his face, he turned away from the haunted and tired man in the mirror. He picked up the tan trenchcoat from where he had dumped it on the floor and exited into the main room. 

He wasn't sure if he should have been surprised to see the room empty, but he was glad for the lack of audience. Dean dropped the coat on one of the chairs and let the towel slide to the ground. Slipping under the covers of the queen sized bed felt divine. He let himself sink into the soft mattress and dropped into a deep sleep before his head even hit the pillows.

He was beyond tired, beyond hungry, and beyond scared. Despite all these things, he felt safe, because he knew his Angel wound be back. He had to believe that, for his sanity. 

So he slept, trusting he was free at last from Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!
> 
> Please comment what you thought! I'd love to hear your feedback.
> 
> Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?
> 
> Please comment any feedback you have!
> 
> Next chapter will be up in a few days :)


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